478 Identity poems

One’s-Self I sing, a simple separate person, Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse. Of physiology from top to toe I sing, Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete is worthier far, The Female equally with the Male I sing. Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful, for freest action form’d under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.

The only Mexican that ever was Mexican, fought in the revolution and drank nightly, and like all machos, crawled into work crudo, letting his breath twirl, then clap and sing before sandpaper juiced the metal. The only Mexican to never sit in a Catholic pew was born on Halloween, and ate his lunch wrapped in foil against the fence with the other Mexicans. They fixed old Fords where my grandfather worked for years, him and the welder Juan wagered each year on who would return first to the Yucatan. Neither did. When my aunts leave, my dad paces the living room and then rests, like a jaguar who once drank rain off the leaves of Cecropia trees, but now caged, bends his paw on a speaker to watch crowds pass. He asks me to watch grandpa, which means, for the day; in town for two weeks, I have tried my best to avoid this. Many times he will swear, and many times grandpa will ask to get in and out of bed, want a sweater, he will ask the time, he will use the toilet, frequently ask for beer, about dinner, when the Padres play, por que no novelas, about bed. He will ask about his house, grandma, to sit outside, he will question while answering, he will smirk, he will invent languages while tucked in bed. He will bump the table, tap the couch, he will lose his slipper, wedging it in the wheel of his chair, like a small child trapped in a well, everyone will care. He will cry without tears—a broken carburetor of sobs. When I speak Spanish, he shakes his head, and reminds me, he is the only Mexican.

Three days after I was born, as I lay in my silken cradle, gazing with astonished dismay on the new world round about me, my mother spoke to the wet-nurse, saying, “How does my child?” And the wet-nurse answered, “He does well, Madame, I have fed him three times; and never before have I seen a babe so young yet so gay.” And I was indignant; and I cried, “It is not true, mother; for my bed is hard, and the milk I have sucked is bitter to my mouth, and the odour of the breast is foul in my nostrils, and I am most miserable.” But my mother did not understand, nor did the nurse; for the language I spoke was that of the world from which I came. And on the twenty-first day of my life, as I was being christened, the priest said to my mother, “You should indeed by happy, Madame, that your son was born a Christian.” And I was surprised,—and I said to the priest, “Then your mother in Heaven should be unhappy, for you were not born a Christian.” But the priest too did not understand my language. And after seven moons, one day a soothsayer looked at me, and he said to my mother, “Your son will be a statesman and a great leader of men.” But I cried out,—”That is a false prophet; for I shall be a musician, and naught but a musician shall I be.” But even at that age my language was not understood—and great was my astonishment. And after three and thirty years, during which my mother, and the nurse, and the priest have all died, (the shadow of God be upon their spirits) the soothsayer still lives.  And yesterday I met him near the gates of the temple; and while we were talking together he said, “I have always known you would become a great musician. Even in your infancy I prophesied and foretold your future.” And I believed him—for now I too have forgotten the language of that other world.

Put my glad rags in a cardboard box— This old jiggerboo never grew mature. Is everthing in its place except me? Don’t be surprised; I called all day And the only person I could reach was The operator; and it’s a sorry day when Nothing is coming down but your foot. And how deep is your stomach cause That’s how far your heart will fall! When I’m gone I might come back cause I’m always forgetting something special. A crease in my overalls, my collar stiff, I cried as many tears as I have teeth. And I only got two in my mouth. Son of the Sun look out: as you get black you burn. Is everything in its place except me?

rustle plastic bags of outside food in movie theaters/talk out of turn in the swallow-dark light/believe trash should be/as confetti/everywhere in the viaducts’ shadow/souring in gutters’ craw/jaywalk with the urgency of sloth /split verbs meaningfully/do or want to do better/ tattoo so you will never mis- remember our names/name ourselves Precious and Mercedes/must have some Indian in us/search for signifiers in eyes/ bright earlobes/textures of hair/ are color-stuck/are disabused our definitions of love/love and don’t know how to call it/ grieve any number of nouns/mostly people/ pets/preoccupy with memories at the repast/recall that day at the beach that / leads us to days at the beach grilling/meat browning/its purpose/it’s children on the sandbar tossing a ball/the dog biting the surf/finally some mirth/we carry for keeps.

All cousins know the electric slide/ how to spell/despite the stink of it/chitterlings or chitlins/the odor of pig feet or catfish under a steam of vinegar/ believe blood is the most important thing/bring family up for better or worse/better the family or bemoan who just won’t do right/ learn early the power fist/dap/pound/and running man/invent glorious ways to say “brother” with intricacies of hands/we cool/give elders their due/cull histories in quilts/set records/set beats/set rights/set Black Jesus/love our tannin skin/drown yowls in jazz/ watch blocks bristle heat/in the hundreds/it’s past sundown/Mecca’s everywhere now.

dreaming the lives of the ancestors, you awake, justly terrified of this world: you could dance underwater and not get wet, you hear, but the pressure is drowning you: you’re awake, but just terrified of this world, where all solids are ice:underwater boogie, you hear, but the press sure is drowning you: the igbo were walking, not dancing: where all solids are ice,underwater boogie is good advice, because they’re quick to melt: the igbo were straight up walking, not dancing: and you’ve still got to get through this life: take my advice, quickly: they’re melting: you could dance underwater and not get wet: and you’ve got to, to get through this life still dreaming the lives of the ancestors

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker slapped the back of my head and made me stand in the corner for not knowing the difference between persimmon and precision. How to choose persimmons. This is precision. Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted. Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one will be fragrant. How to eat: put the knife away, lay down newspaper. Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat. Chew the skin, suck it, and swallow. Now, eat the meat of the fruit, so sweet, all of it, to the heart. Donna undresses, her stomach is white. In the yard, dewy and shivering with crickets, we lie naked, face-up, face-down. I teach her Chinese. Crickets:chiu chiu. Dew: I’ve forgotten. Naked:   I’ve forgotten. Ni, wo:   you and me. I part her legs, remember to tell her she is beautiful as the moon. Other words that got me into trouble were fight and fright,wren and yarn. Fight was what I did when I was frightened, Fright was what I felt when I was fighting. Wrens are small, plain birds, yarn is what one knits with. Wrens are soft as yarn. My mother made birds out of yarn. I loved to watch her tie the stuff; a bird, a rabbit, a wee man. Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class and cut it up so everyone could taste a Chinese apple. Knowing it wasn’t ripe or sweet, I didn’t eat but watched the other faces. My mother said every persimmon has a sun inside, something golden, glowing, warm as my face. Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper, forgotten and not yet ripe. I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill, where each morning a cardinal sang,The sun, the sun. Finally understanding he was going blind, my father sat up all one night waiting for a song, a ghost. I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness, and sweet as love. This year, in the muddy lighting of my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking for something I lost. My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs, black cane between his knees, hand over hand, gripping the handle. He’s so happy that I’ve come home. I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question. All gone, he answers. Under some blankets, I find a box. Inside the box I find three scrolls. I sit beside him and untie three paintings by my father: Hibiscus leaf and a white flower. Two cats preening. Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth. He raises both hands to touch the cloth, asks,Which is this? This is persimmons, Father. Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk, the strength, the tense precision in the wrist. I painted them hundreds of times eyes closed. These I painted blind. Some things never leave a person: scent of the hair of one you love, the texture of persimmons, in your palm, the ripe weight.

As a teenager she was like any other, boys, the craic, smoking down the backs. Later there was talk she broke things, furniture and glass, her mother’s heart. ‘Mad at the world,’ the old women nod, round each other’s faces. But it was more than that and for less she was punished. That weekend she didn’t leave a cup alone every chair hit the wall, Philomena’s revenge. Soon after she was shifted and given the shocks. Round each other’s faces the old women nod ‘Treatment, treatment they’ve given her the treatment.’ These days she gets on with the furniture, wears someone else’s walk, sees visions in glass. She’s good too for getting the messages; small things, bread and milk sometimes the paper, and closing the gate after her father drives out, she waits for his signal he always shouts twice, ‘Get the gate Philo, get the gate, girl.’

What can I tell you? It was a summer that seemed to be making history — their personal history — almost before it began, and they stood back slightly, still in it, but observing it, saying “the summer this,” “the summer that,” all the while it was going on. They became obsessed with a fountain, for example, one they walked past each day, how abundantly it would reach upwards and yet be pouring back down itself the whole time — all winter this fountain had been dry, not saying a word. What more can I tell you? Oh, everything — like how they would walk home in the evenings when the light was soft, anything bad sliding off them, and they would feel owned, completely owned, in a good way, by the air, which would touch them constantly, sometimes urgently, sometimes lightly, just to let them know it was there, and they would think maybe this is what being alive is, when they saw how complicated a tree was and how it wanted them looking at it and saying this, how the color of a particular flower at this particular moment was redder even than the life force, whatever that is, if you could open it up and get right down inside it, if you could put your mouth to it and become as red as that rose even, it was still redder than that, and they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves so they wouldn’t do anything except listen to the songs in their heads which were sad ones like nearly all good songs and watch this feeling rolling in, sunshine or rain, we don’t know yet, it’s a good one, it’s the best one, though it has no name.